


Packing for a Mission

by doctormissy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Crack, Humor, James is packing for a mission and doesn't know what to take, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:50:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If there were something James Bond hated about missions, it was packing. Particularly when it concerned longer ones with no fixed number of days spent abroad. He never knew how many pairs of socks or how many clean, white shirts he was supposed to take."<br/>Or something no one ever thought about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packing for a Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This is one with not established relationship, that's a surprise.  
> Also what I must say - CREDIT TO MY MUM FOR WRITING THIS. The coversations and the crazy headcanon is all hers, I only wrote descriptions. 
> 
> Every night when we go to sleep, we talk and we always somehow get to films and shows, and she knows how much do I love Bond films, so we end up there and we always make crazy, stupid headcanons, like this one. She's really good at that. We're capable of talking for hours every day. This one's from yesterday and it made me lmao-ing (and her too) like a lot. Even when we wrote it. Another one was 'What if James Bond met a Dalek'. We said that in unison and started a dialogue between Bond and Q. Plus she made them both Time Lords. On a date in Doctor Who Experience in Cardiff. I'm gonna write that one too.
> 
> And right after I finished writing we went to have lunch and ate some ice cream then, and we started role-playing. I was James, she was Q. Q bought ice cream and they talked about it and ate it. Writing that too, only a shame I didn't have a notebook then.
> 
> My mum's even a bigger fangirl than me, I think. She's the one who yells 'Oh for god's sake just kiss already you twats' at the computer and begs me to watch sth every day. And her fanfic ideas - priceless. Once she starts shipping someone...

If there were something James Bond hated about missions, it was packing. Particularly when it concerned longer ones with no fixed number of days spent abroad. He never knew how many pairs of socks or how many clean, white shirts he was supposed to take. The last time, he had three shirts and two suits for four days, but they were unnecessary, since it all went smoothly and without spilling to much blood, but it was very wet in the tropical rainforest, thus he would have had needed six pairs of socks at least and the same number of shoes.

Speaking of shoes, was he to take polished black oxfords or matte brown leather ones? Or sandals, since he goes to the Canaries and it is August? Because he hated walking about on the beach in his favourite, expensive shoes and he definitely planned on going to the sea and have a swim. 

It was like this every time. He stood in his bedroom with a still empty holdall on the floor and piles of clothes sprawled on the bed. Shirts, jackets, trousers; also some more casual jeans and t-shirts. Should he take the black, warmer suit? But what if it’s only going to be hot for the entire time? Then he would take the white one, with a navy blue stripe on the lapels. Then again, what if it’s going to rain? Bond couldn’t refrain from sighing and scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. 

He might call for advice, just this once. And for weather forecast. Bond took his mobile out of his tracksuits’ right pocket and pressed number one on speed dial. He waited for the man on the other side to pick up and when he heard a slightly tired ‘Yes, Bond?’ he said, “Q, could you search weather forecast for next five days on Canary Islands?”

 _“Why do you want that from me, don’t you have your own computer?”_ the Quartermaster replied wearily and with a hint of annoyance in the tone of his voice, yet Bond could hear typing already. He knew he still was at work, because Q was a workaholic and when there was no one (read Bond or Moneypenny) to drag him home by force, he would very well sleep there on the sofa every night. 

He didn’t want to say ‘I’m just too lazy to plug it in and turn it on’, so he rather said nothing and asked the intended question, “I can’t decide whether to take a black suit or a white one. And how many pairs of socks should I take for five-days-long mission? I took three the last time and that wasn’t a sufficient amount and what I hate even more than lack of underwear is having to wash it on my own. On the other hand, I hate when I have superfluous garments too, you know that.” 

He must have been truly hopeless when he called his Quartermaster for advice in the middle of the night, asking him questions about socks. Moreover, he was _blathering_. That did not happen very often. Never, you could say.

 _“A very trustworthy source says 28-30 degrees on average, so if I were you, I would take the white one with blue stripe that I love so much on you. And taking few spare pairs of socks won’t kill you, Bond. I’m afraid I can’t offer any more help on this matter. Is that all? I’ve got work to do if you excuse me.”_

Bond couldn’t believe his ears; did Q just openly say _I would take the white one with blue stripe that I love so much on you?_ They flirted and bantered all the time, but he would never think Q could mean it. Well, he hoped, because he certainly found something about Q endearing and charming and he… was fond of him, sort of. 

Alright, that was one dilemma sorted, but he still did not know which swimwear to take. He needed Q to not ring off yet, so he quickly blurted out, “No, it’s not all, I need you to assess which trunks should I take. Do you _love_ the light-blue ones too or should I take Bermudas?” Bond would slap himself for what he said, as if he lost all of his usual wit and talked like a bloody teenager. But he couldn’t take that back now.

 _“Oh, for god’s sake, did I say that?”_ Q uttered, ashamed. _“I really must be tired. Anyway, take the blue ones; I… upgraded them a while ago. Don’t tighten them too much, it might strangle your internal organs if you know what I mean.”_

Bond tried very hard not to imagine Q imagining him in the trunks or thinking where did the Quartermaster get to them in the first place. But an ‘upgrade’, as he said, could come in handy.

_“Speaking of upgrades, stop by in Q-Branch tomorrow before you go, I have something for you. You’ll like it, although it’s not exactly an exploding pen. Special swimming goggles, you know.”_

“I am looking forward to that, Q. Anyway, I think I know the answer for the shoes matter as well now,” he smirked and walked to the place on the floor where five pairs of shoes lay. “Thank you, Q,” he added and rang off. Bond took a pair of the brown ones, because he imagined Q approving of those better. He also decided to add the sandals, just in case. 

Bond packed the white suit, four shirts, a pair of black jeans, a navy-blue polo shirt, light-blue swim briefs (with something as a string in the waistband, he figured) six pairs of dark socks and the same number of underpants. Now he only needed to take other necessities and of course his gun.

James Bond was sometimes worse than a woman when it came to packing a bag.

**Author's Note:**

> I know some of this is stupid, but I had to leave it as it was. I laughed at a string in the waistband especially and thought it was way too good to give it a miss. She thought I should name the 'necessities', but that would be too much.


End file.
